


A Spark

by Coffeedormous



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Dancing, Fanart, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 10:23:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4956661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coffeedormous/pseuds/Coffeedormous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The doctor makes a careless statement and has to answer for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Spark

**Author's Note:**

> A little thing I wrote to go with that fan art of mine.

 

 

Julian swallowed the last bite of his dessert and put down the fork.  
“Defend your elusiveness all you want, Garak, but there’s one thing you won’t be able to deny.”  
The cardassian raised his eyes from the plate with an anticipating smile.  
“And what would that be, doctor?”  
“You’d never make a good dancing partner!” Bashir proclaimed with a victorious expression.  
The heavy brows of his companion went up, and the eyes lit up with a somewhat dangerous spark.  
“And what makes you say that, pray tell, my dear doctor?”  
Bashir looked a bit lost.  
“Well, you know what they say.”  
“I’m afraid you’ll have to enlighten me.”  
“That dancing requires complete trust. You’d never really get the hang of it if you can’t trust your partner entirely…apparently.” he finished with some confusion. The cardassian’s eyes were piercing him like a pair of his own medical lasers. He suddenly remembered the promise he made to himself when he first met Garak: never to get on this man’s bad side. Might be a health risk.  
The pause lingered. The cardassian continued to stare at him expectantly.  
“Look, Garak, I didn’t mean to offe..”  
Garak suddenly raised a hand, stopping him, than folded his napkin and stood up.  
“That’s it, doctor, the lunch is over. You asked for it, and you shall get it. Come along.”  
He clasped Bashir by the sleeve and nearly dragged the frustrated doctor out of the restaurant.  
The owner, an enormous Klingon, leaned over to the bajoran regular sitting at the bar:  
“These two, eh? Who needs a holoprojector and all these soaps when I’ve got customers like this? Last week they got into a fight over Shakespeare. The skinny one got stabbed with a fork.”  
  
**  
“Garak, slow down, will you? I’m nearly out of breath.”  
“Well, in that case I do hope Mrs. O’Brian will be off soon: you’ve fallen quite out of shape without the Chief whipping you into it at racquetball. Fortunately, I have just as good an exercise in mind.”  
“Exercise? Are we sprinting towards the gym, then?”  
“Ah, not exactly. We are going to Pashira’s Den.”  
“Pashira’s? But why..”  
“Because,” Garak answered, finally stopping in front of the red-lit door, "this place has the only decent dance floor on the station.”  
Bashir stepped inside after him. The establishment was empty at this time of day. Several customers were sitting around the bar. At the center of the room there was a rather spacious round stage of sorts, also empty and with its lights out.  
“Dancing?…Oh, Garak, I didn’t think…”  
“Yes, this seems to happen to you quite a lot, doesn’t it? Now, come, doctor, you have nobody to blame for you predicament but yourself.” Garak graciously backed out until he stood at the center of the round floor, almost completely in the dark.  
“Lights.” He commanded, clapping his hands.  
Five blue projectors lit up the scene. People at the bar started to turn their heads to the unexpected entertainment. Garak stood there, his hands behind his back, waiting.  
The realization finally hit the doctor.  
“Me? You want to dance with…me?”  
“Well, since it was you who so rudely implied that I would make a poor dance partner, I find it only logical that I should make use of your persona to demonstrate just how wrong you were.”  
Bashir looked positively crushed now, staring at his feet.  
“Damn you, Garak, I already told you I am sorry. I can’t possibly…”  
“Why not? Whatever is the matter, doctor?” Garak uttered with a mocked concern. “Or is it…ah, of course. I understand.’’

The doctor raised his eyes back on him:  
"You do?”  
“But of course. Forgive me. I did not consider that it would not be appropriate, according to your human customs, for you, a man, to dance with a male partner. It is considered… what’s the word…devious, that’s the one. Am I correct?”  
The doctor now looked like a man who was given an easy way out, only to be pinned to his place by moral obligation. After a beat, he seemed to have made a decision.  
“Well…no. Not really. It was considered so, a long time ago, but not anymore.”  
“What is it, then?”  
"I…can’t really dance. I tried to learn a few moves, but it’s no use. I move like tin man, like one of these ancient robots of ours. In fact, I am quite sure any modern robot would give me a run for my money…”  
Garak interrupted him with a strangely sincere laughter and stepped closer, clasping his hand and placing his own other palm at doctor’s waist.  
“Don’t worry about that, my dear doctor. I’ll show you that in order to have a great dance, one can not only do very well without a complete trust, but also without practically any skill on the side of other party.” He drew the flustered doctor even closer and nodded to the bartender, already stationed near the music controller. The blue lights started swaying with the rhythm as the tones of romulan tango filled the room. Garak could clearly see his own eyes mirrored in the huge, wide-opened eyes of his partner.

  
“To dance,” he murmured, “one needs only a spark.”


End file.
